


The Gang Investigates Ted Cruz: Bonus Content

by The_Shrekelles



Series: The Gang Investigates Ted Cruz [2]
Category: Led Zeppelin, The Who (Band)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shrekelles/pseuds/The_Shrekelles
Summary: If ‘The Gang Investigates Ted Cruz’ is my cinematic masterpiece, consider this the little additional features menu that comes with the Blu-ray.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, John Bonham/John Paul Jones, John Entwistle/Keith Moon, Roger Daltrey/Pete Townshend
Series: The Gang Investigates Ted Cruz [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855624
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Jimmy’s Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Since I’m going to be traveling, I’m going to miss my update schedule for a couple weeks. So I figured I’d supplement that with short asides, missing scenes, excerpts from Jimmy’s diary- basically anything that I can write quickly without really editing it. Idk, tell me what you want to see.

Dearest Journal, 

I have recently stumbled upon a new fixation. My love for the holiest advice and knowledge of the zodiac has been tarnished; some vile butcher of the innocent has been calling himself Zodiac in letters written to law enforcement. My blood boils as it seldom has. I fear that, as a humble occultist, I will be profiled as this so-called Zodiac Killer. My wrath is palpable; I think I have frightened Percy and yet in my rage I am beyond caring. This scares me. I frighten him far too often, I think. That poor dear creature fears for me, living on the edge as I do. This is the detriment of being an irresistible man of mystery and danger such as myself. 

On a similar note, the sex tonight was fantastic. I am quite proud of my steadily increasing stamina, although I do need to work on flexibility. I cannot, however, stretch nor do yoga, for that would make me gay and make Robert right, neither of which can happen if my life is to continue unimpeded.

Dearest Journal,

I write this with a heart near ready to burst! My paramour, the light of my life and fire of my loins, the glorious golden deity who somehow saw fit to grace my pitiful life with his sublime presence, has arranged for us to solve the mystery that has so plagued me! He has contacted our dear friends The Who, as well as anonymous others who told him they were unavailable. Those fools. We will see who is unavailable when we are heroic vigilantes and they mere musicians! We will be unavailable, too busy with the unadulterated love and admiration of all the world. 

Tonight’s love-making was somewhat odd, _here he has pinned an illicit photograph of Robert,_ as we spent most of the evening seeking out detective supplies, and were very tired. Jonesy’s pepper idea was terrible **note to self: revenge**

I quake with anticipation; we leave for California soon! I have acquired a cute little detective hat, as per Percy’s request. 

Dearest Journal, 

I am in **HELL** , or as the normals call it, ‘an airplane.’ How dare the stewardess ask me to ‘calm down’?! That tawdry slut doesn’t know up from down! And dear sweet Jonesy, telling me to ‘Quit your whining, Bonzo’s having a genuine panic attack and I can’t babysit you right now’?! He is small minded, an atrocious friend! Poor dear beautiful perfect Robert tried to soothe me with one of his perfectly masculine hands around my wrist, which helped slightly. And then the wonderful darling made the mistake of giving me a little book of horoscopes. It told me to tap into my energies and channel them productively. **But** how can I do that, I reason, when **certain individuals** continue to hamper my creativity?! And they won’t sell me any more alcohol!!!! This is the gravest insult I’ve ever had to face. 

Dearest Journal,

Last night I was forced to sleep in the trunk of a car! Too exhausted from travel to have intercourse. Percy is so unreasonable, I cannot believe it. He was raised in a bucket in the woods or something, what makes him think he is entitled to room service? Bedbugs would never harm him, this is why I am there. But alas, he will not see reason. Perhaps he fears a return to the horrible poverty of his youth. Although, having never been there, I still assume that Kidderminster is somewhat different from California. I cannot go there, the poor hicks would be confused and frightened. I would be burned as a witch. Robert insists that this is an ignorant classist caricature on my part, but I know he is merely embarrassed of his homeland. It is strange that such a wonderful creature could come from such a place. It would be like finding out that the finest cognac was brewed in a rusty bucket and aged in the unfinished cellar of a tax office.   
  


Dearest Journal,

Today I sinned. It was delicious. Pete is so very flexible. And, though the others are furious right now (it is technically tomorrow, four am), angry sex is the best kind. I feel slightly sorry for Robert, but I know if he was a true hippy, he would embrace my free spirit. I must try now for a few more hours’ sleep before we go back to our mission, which I feel we have lost sight of of late. 

Dearest Journal,

Today has been a delight. Roger Daltrey ( **note to self: possible new friend?** ) and I went to consult with local law enforcement. We weren’t wanted, but this is fine. There was a tad bit of a confrontation, which culminated in Roger dispatching a stolen taser on his own self. I had to haul him out, and we had quite a merry adventure! We were soon escorted back to the station, and I actually provided him with care! Exciting. 

Right now, we are in a pizza place. Its owner is an adorable old Italian man, so old that he became extremely confused when we ordered, and very obviously went to order some from another restaurant. He now seems to be threatening another customer, also older and Italian. They must be friends. 

Bonzo and Entwistle won’t talk; drama queens. Robert won’t tell me about his day, either. Says it is between him and the forest. Honestly, the things he gets up to.   
  


The pizza was horrible, but Jonesy has found us a place to stay! It’s a good day to be Jimmy. Shower sex is so boring, but I’ll tolerate it for him. At least it isn’t the bathtub. The others may call me a pussy as much as they like, but drowning kills thousands of people every year! It is not my fault that I never learned to swim. 

Dearest Journal, 

I love Jonesy like a brother/almost-unrequited lover, but he can be so dense! Onion nuggets? Disgusting. Almost more so than exposing my mild biases to the rest of them. As if they had any right to know! And Pete, daring to make advances upon **my** lover? Revolting!! I cannot believe I succumbed to his degenerate advances of late! **Note to self: arm self stronger against the desires of the flesh.** I wonder what Randy was doing? Probably trying to investigate as well. The poor man must have thought that our vehicle contained the killer! I sincerely regret running him down in such a callous manner. We are awful. Especially Jonesy. I hate that cute little bitch. 

It was wonderful to see Ernestine and Kimiko again. 

Dearest Journal, 

I recently struck a moment of artistic inspiration. As I lay here tonight, clad only in two pairs of Mickey Mouse ears, I think I shall try to eek out a poem by the meager moonlight:

A flower dormant for so long

Has finally come to bloom

My lover 

My love.

The first flower bloomed back in Epsom

It made my heart halt

Sprung up haphazardly in between the pavement

Where it wasn’t supposed to be

Slabs of wood held together; painted-on frets 

I had thought that I was normal

But, maybe 

I’m gay for flowers

I am too tired to continue. Mayhaps later. 

Dearest Journal,

Today went wonderfully. We recovered from our strenuous experience at Disneyland at a spa, and all was well. I saw a flamingo and indulged in envy; his beauty was so effortless and yet so profound. Bonzo cruelly mocked my tears, but I know that this only strengthens my skills as a tormented poet. The Victorians knew that pink is a very masculine colour. All others are fools, weak. The spa was a delight, I have ne’er been so well-tended-for. Never in my life has anyone ever been so thoroughly and single-mindedly focused on my well-being. This prompted a simple thought: why do I not expect such from my so-called loved ones? _At this point in his reading, Jonesy had to physically put the book down and take a brief walk to work through his feelings._ Have they ever thought even half as hard about my joy as those near strangers? I think they must be quite selfish to treat me so. Robert comes close. He is a talented masseuse, and frequently tries reminding me to hydrate. Robert is good. The other less so. I should send out a memo. The question is whether to classify this as a personal or workplace issue? Much to consider. 


	2. The Gang Does a Christmas Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valentine’s Day is a winter holiday, therefore, I definitely finished and published this on time.

‘Twas solstice afternoon, the only that year, and all The Whos down in Whoville were struggling to hear. See, Peter Dennis Blamford Townshend had seriously damaged his vocal cords yelling at Roger the other day, so all of his commands came in the form of indignant whispers. The commands, of course, related to the little holiday party they’d decided to throw themselves not an hour ago. Actually, they’d decided the day before, but then sat around doing nothing for the next thirty hours, and only now bothered to implement their ideas. 

Now there was plenty of energy, but no real plan. What did a solstice party even look like? Were you supposed to bring a tree in? Should they do it regardless? Was it alright to drink alcohol? If not, what even was the point? Roger was the closest to hippiedom, but they didn’t trust him to do anything ever. Eventually, an unofficial consensus was reached, determining that they would just mindlessly obey Pete with an occasional act of token rebellion, because that was how they did everything else. Mindlessly obeying Pete with occasional acts of token rebellion had made them rich; why mess with a winning formula? 

As they mindlessly milled about, doing their little tasks, Roger had an independent thought. Ruh-roh. He thought that throwing an entire party was sort of pointless if it would only be the four of them. But, it occurred, they were halfway through decorating, and there would be no point in ripping down all of their stolen tinsel and holly boughs. What to do? 

“Guys!” He said, at least seven times, until Keith finally snapped. 

“What, Roger?! What do you want?!” 

“Why don’t we invite our friends and totally not-superior equals, Led Zeppelin, to our delightful generic nondenominational winter holiday party?” 

“That would be acceptable,” Pete rasped painfully from his sulking corner. 

“Do we know any of their phone numbers?” 

“Well,” Roger said slowly, “I know Robert’s, and if I know Robert, he’s also spent the longest day of the year with his friends.” 

“So we just call his house on the chance that they’re all conveniently there?” 

“Stranger things have happened, John,” said Keith. Pete was also speaking, straining to be heard, but nobody paid him any mind. Roger punched Percy’s number into the phone, and his friends stood around while it rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. John told him to give up; Roger held up a finger at him. They waited for another minute. Eventually, Pete shuffled away to his specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair, and the rhythm section went back to decorating. 

When Roger finally heard another voice, it was that of John Bonham, audibly tired. 

“Hello, you’ve reached the offices of Zed Leppelin, how may I help you?” 

“It’s me, Roger Daltrey. You know, back from-”

“Yeah I remember you. Guys!” His voice grew further away, leading Roger to believe that he must be holding the phone out to his colleagues. “Guys, say hi to Roger!”

“Robert, I can’t play very well,” came the distant but distinctly irate voice of Jimmy Page, “if you keep leaning on my arm.” 

“I want a divorce!” 

“Guys Roger’s on the phone!” 

“Oh, hello Roger.”

“Roger! My best friend in all the world! I hope you’re having a wonderful day!” 

“Roger can’t be your best friend, Jim-Jam. He’s my best friend.”

“We can have mutual friends, darling.”

“No, no we can’t. We can’t have the same relationship with anyone. We have one mutual frenemy, and even that’s pushing it.” 

“Jonesy has a name.”

“Three or four.”

“Wait, so you can just be happy and jovial and get along perfectly with whomever manages to hold your attention for more than a few minutes, but as soon as I have a friend-” Roger cringed at the incorrect use of whom, that being his only grammatical knowledge. 

“Oh my god, Jimmy, the entire world is not conspiring against you at all times-”

“But you could be!”

“So we’re having a very productive and pleasant day.” Bonzo’s voice returned to the speaker. “How are you guys?” 

“We’re, well- We’re well, thanks for asking. So well, in fact, that we decided to throw a little thing, for the solstice, if you wanted to come.” Bonzo removed his voice again.

“Guys! Guys, do we want to go to Roger’s solstice thing?” He waited a beat, before his voice came back to the speaker. “Nobody’s answering me, so, I’ll take that as a yes. When should we show up?” 

“Just, you know, whenever you can. The time doesn’t really matter.” 

“And where?”

“Do you know where my fuckhut is?”

“No, but I assume Robert does.” 

“Yeah, yeah he should. If he forgets, it’s the one with the balcony.” 

“Ok, where is it, generally?” 

“So, if you go through the-” suddenly, there was noise on the other end of the line. It was subtle and muffled, so Roger ignored it. “If you’re on the highway-”

“Not now.” 

“-and, then, you’ve got to pass the first three gas stations, and then turn at the fourth-”

“I am on the phone.” 

“But John!”

“If you just let me listen to him for five minutes you can have all the attention in the world.” 

“And when you get to the last fork, go left, and you should be there.”

“Wait, so, once we exit, we take the next left-”

“No, you take the next two rights.” 

“Two? Okay, so the next two rights, and then- Go away!- and then after the third gas station-”

“No John it’s-”

“Sorry Rog, I have to go, we’ll figure it out. See you there.” 

“Yeah, we’ll see y-” Bonzo hung up. 

“They’re coming, I think.” 

“Good for you, Roger,” Pete replied, clearly paying no attention to what he said. 

“No, I said they’re coming. Like, outsiders will be viewing our wilderness retreat.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that.” 

“Yeah, me neither, John. So, should we maybe,” he gestured aimlessly, wishing that someone would finish his sentence for him. Not all wishes come true. “-do something about the state of the fuckhut? Clean it, perchance?” 

“That would be a good idea, Roger.” Pete gave a nod of approval, notably not moving any of the rest of his body. 

“No, guys, we have to do it now. They’re coming over in a few hours.” 

“But we just finished decorating! Don’t we deserve a break?” 

“Keith, you spent an hour walking around with a single wreath in your hands, pretending to be busy. John did everything.” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“You didn’t even hang it anywhere; it’s leaning against the wall on the floor by the television.” 

“Avant-garde. I am an artist.” 

“Okay, sure,” he conceded, realizing that this wasn’t worth the fight. Roger just considered himself (and the rest of them) lucky that Pete hadn’t yet decided to use this as an opportunity to open the symposium to the definition of art. “Could you be bothered to dust or something?” Keith let out the heaviest sigh he was capable of, sliding all the way down the couch until his knees hit the floor. 

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t say it as one quick word, he dragged it out over the course of at least forty seconds. 

“While you do that, I think Pete and I should go to a store.”

“Why?”

“You know how there’s no food in this house, right?”

“Oh I am well aware of that, my good sir. I simply question your ability to acquire enough food for the eight of us before they get here.”

“Is that a challenge?!” Pete furiously whispered at the top of his lungs. 

“Yes Pete it is,” Roger said immediately. Pete opened his mouth to speak again, and everybody leant all the way in to hear.

“Well then, consider yourself challenged: we’ll put the food together, you clean the house, whoever does it better and faster is both better and faster. Deal?”

“I have nothing else planned,” John said, which was as close to an agreement as they could have expected. It was on. 

“So,” Bonzo asked in the car, “are we going to talk about what happened, or. . .?” 

“It’s been three years, John,” remarked the other John, “I don’t know why we’d start now.” He slid his little body down the length of the passenger’s seat defeatedly. Robert and Jimmy were sitting on opposite sides of the back, performatively staring out their own windows instead of at one another. 

“I’ll start.” The bear man was apparently not discouraged. “I think that, in lieu of talking about their issues or resolving anything healthily, Robert and Jimmy rely on an endless vicious cycle of arguments and honeymoon periods to reconcile their differences.” 

“Well I don’t think that’s true at all,” Jimmy snapped. “I think Robert Plant is the dumbest whore I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, and-” he faltered. Jimmy found that he just didn’t have the heart to do this. Instead, he contritely said, “I’m just an awful prick.” 

“That’s not it,” Bonzo said with unearned certainty. “It’s not wrong, but it’s not the full story at all.” 

“I-”

“You don’t have to answer right now; just think about it. And Percy?”

“I’m sorry baby.”

“You don’t have to apologize to him, just, you know, think about why this has to happen every other week.”

“I am sorry, sweet nipples.”

“Oh, Jimmy, you know I can’t stay mad at you!” Robert slid over to the middle seat and wrapped himself around the little slip of a guitarist, who leant into the touch like a needy pet. Jonesy finally lifted his head off of the leather seat. 

“Are we there yet?” 

“You know, I don’t actually know.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” 

“I mean that I had a hard time understanding the directions Roger gave me because somebody decided to-” Jonesy sighed. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you? Because you don’t sound sorry at all.” 

“Well, it’s tricky, you know- I think, the thing is- So, whenever they do their. . .” Jonesy motioned vaguely in the direction of their coworkers, “whatever it is, we always flee to a different, private place, usually to,” here he paused, trying to find a cute euphemism for the deed in question. 

“We have sex, yes, I’ve noticed that.” 

“Well, because of this constant routine, I think- I think I might have accidentally trained myself.” Jonesy sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “It’s like that bloke with the dog, you know?”

“Pavlov, yes, I only have a passing familiarity with his work but I understand. So, what you’re telling me is that whenever Page and Plant have an argument, you go into heat?” 

“Don’t say it like that!” He struggled to keep his voice down, quickly glancing at the backseat. Robert and Jimmy were still ensconced in one another; he and Bonzo were having an entirely private conversation. “I’m not a fucking feral cat.” 

“You know, I’m not so sure.” 

“The point is, I’ve accidentally trained my body to react in a certain way to their fighting. Now, obviously, they can never find out about this, because it would be the end of me.” 

“Don’t you think they could forgive you that? I mean, what with everything that’s transpired over the years, I don’t think they have any right to be mad at you.” 

“Oh of course not. It’s not about them being mad at me- baby look out for that cyclist! What was I saying?” Bonzo didn’t answer, too busy trying to navigate, and a moment of silence passed. For the first time, Jonesy consciously realized that he had no idea where they were. It lightly forested, this road they were on, in between two miserable towns. It had its own beauty though, certainly. He leant his gingery head on the window briefly, taking it in. “Oh, right, Robert and Jimmy.” 

“What is it?” Robert asked, face suddenly flushed. 

“Nothing Percy, we weren’t talking to you guys,” Bonzo assured him. They certainly were close. In fact, Jimmy seemed to be actively trying to hide his freakishly long body from the rear view mirror. John narrowed his eyes. 

“You guys aren’t having sex back there, are you?” 

“That depends upon your definition of sex,” James returned. 

“I don’t want to know,” Jones said, speaking for both of them. The frontmen made small noises of acknowledgement and returned to whatever they were doing. “What I was saying was, I don’t really worry about them being mad at me-”

“For getting horny when they start yelling at each other.” Bonzo refreshed himself and the audience. 

“Yeah. What I worry about is my own dignity, you know? I couldn’t live with knowing that they know that. I don't know if I could ever interact with them again. I might seriously have to break up the band.” 

“We could just replace you.” 

“Ha! I’d like to see you try.” 

“It wouldn’t be nearly as good, granted, but that seems like the kind of thing Jimmy would do.” 

“It does.” The silence that followed made Bonzo uncomfortable, as all silence did, especially because the subject of his disposability wasn’t the train of thought he wanted his lover left with alone. 

“Well, I forgive you for interrupting my phone call.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I just- I had to get out of there fast, you understand?” 

“I do; that’s why I forgave you.” 

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, darling, yesssssssss,” Jimmy was clearly trying to be quiet, but couldn’t manage to succeed. Robert had disappeared from the Johns’ field of vision entirely. Jonesy reached over to turn the radio on, fiddled around until he found an evangelical Christian talk show, and cranked the volume up full. Jimmy’s blissed out expression turned to one of agony. 

“And the wicked sinners-”

“Oh-oh, oh no, wait-”

“-in a merciless inferno-”

“Ah, but it’s- hnggggg”

“Jimmy,” Robert’s voice made its triumphant return, “You’ve gone. . .”

“Yes I know baby just try agai-”

“Cast out, as in Ezekiel-”

“Oh my god, no!” This went on for several minutes, until Robert eventually gave up, content to hold his neurotic satanic fashionista while he had a sobbing, erotic, religious crisis in the back of their car. Jonesy turned the radio down- but not off. 

“Nice psychological warfare, baby.” 

“Thank you, dear.” Jonesy put his hand atop the drummer’s on the steering wheel in what would be a very tender gesture under ordinary circumstances. The horror and humor of the situation were both so potent, so stringent and surreal, that Bonzo figured he had no choice but to simply accept this as his reality and continue to drive.

“So are we going to clean?” John laughed.

“What a ridiculous concept. The things you think of, Moon.” It had been fifteen minutes. Keith didn’t want to do any manual labor- they had hired Roger for a reason- but he wasn’t fully comfortable allowing Pete and Roger to be the better and faster half of the band. This was a great deal of inner turmoil, certainly more than he was used to dealing with, and the discomfort had only grown since the others had left. 

“I don’t know, they are coming over soon.” John shrugged. What can I say to make him care? “Don’t you think it would stress Jonesy out if the house is a mess?” 

“He’s actually not nearly as OCD as you’d assume. I know, I was shocked too.” 

“I don’t want to do it either, Thunderfngers, but we can’t let Pete have bragging rights.” 

“Don’t you think he needs something- god, anything- to brag about?” Keith had forgotten that John was on Pete’s side always, all the time, at every given opportunity. Not that it bothered him, or anything. Because it totally didn’t. He didn’t care at all in the slightest, no way.

“But Roger.” John’s face tightened, and Keith knew that he had won. “Imagine that little prat, prancing around, declaring himself-”

“Where’s the fucking broom?” 

Things were going surprisingly well at the store. Roger and Pete had decided to simply make their way through the store, in rows and then columns, and simply shovel anything that looked remotely appetizing into their carts- they each had one, and a basket. So far, they were halfway through the rows, and Pete’s cart was already full. They hadn’t talked or even thought since they arrived and laid out the initial plan, Daltrey and Townshend acted on an inaccessibly and unknowably primitive impulse. 

Eventually, a stranger tried to engage them in conversation, mercifully reviving their brains just before they reached the point of no return. Roger and Pete stared at her for a full minute, before finally the latter managed to coax his thick tongue into speech. His reply was less than perfectly coherent, but he was at least on the way back. 

“Roger.” He shook the sheep-like man’s shoulder. 

“Hgguh?” 

“Roger.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s me. That’s who I am. I’m Roger.” 

“Do you think we have enough garbage to last an evening?” Roger looked at the horrid piles they had accrued. 

“Yeah, yeah definitely. Do you think we should get real food, too?” 

“You mean. . . Like cucumbers and stuff?” 

“Sure, Pete, cucumbers are definitely an example.” 

“Okay. Yeah, sure, they’ll like cucumbers.” 

“Okay. Let’s go get some cucumbers.” They sauntered over to the produce section and haphazardly flung a few fruits and vegetables onto their carb mound, and considering that Pete had already added a box of pasta, decided that that was good enough. 

The checker, a beautiful young blonde who was visibly dead inside, seemed awfully familiar to Pete and especially Roger. He looked at her name tag, trying to place where they’d met. It said Liz, a name that rang no bells. 

“My eyes are up here, jackass.” 

“Oh, sorry, I was just-”

“I bet you were just.” 

“Do I know you from someplace?” She looked up at him. Pete, trying to snoop, stopped bagging their items. 

“Oh my god,” Liz’s voice dropped almost an octave. “Are you famed singer Roger Daltrey?” 

“Yeah, I am. And you are?”

“It’s me, New Roger!” 

“So it is!” The groceries started piling up as the conveyor belt trodded on, oblivious to the juicy drama unfolding. Pete tried to go a bit faster, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough. “Is. . . Is this why your parents kicked you out?” 

“What? Oh, no, didn’t Robert tell you?” 

“No, I’m sorry.” 

“No, that was all a lie. My parents and I are on great terms; I just wanted to hang out with my idols.” 

“Aww, you could’ve just told me-”

“Not you, Old Roger! Bonzo and Keith, the greatest drummers of our time.” 

“Yeah, sure, okay.” 

“No, I’m not- The outfit is just for tips. People tip more if they want to fuck you.” 

“Did Robert teach you that?” 

“The part about sex appeal, yeah, he did. The drag was my own idea!” 

“That’s. . . That’s very creative. And the tip jar sure is. . . well it’s half full.”

“I know I haven’t gotten many today, it’s been really slow.”

“Hey, speaking of slow,” Pete frantically whispered as he attempted to catch up with the ever-growing mound of unbagged snack food. But the Rogers paid him no mind. 

“How’s it been since . . .?”

“Since the investigation? Did you ever catch that guy?” 

“That’s. . . Well, yes and no.” 

“What does that mean?” 

It means the finale hasn’t been published yet and I earnestly thought that it would be when I wrote this but it isn’t so I don’t want to spoil the ending and I’m really sorry about that but this is just the reality of the situation. 

“It’s far too complicated to get into now.” 

“Is he likely to kill me if I hang around California or Calgary?”

“Definitely not.” 

“Good enough.” Roger scanned the final item. “That’s going to be six-hundred and sixty-six dollars. Oh, nice!” 

“Ehehe, do you think you could give us a discount? Since we’re your friends? 

“I’m sorry Roger, this place has a really strict policy.” 

“I know it has a policy but we’re best pals, aren’t we? Right? Remember all the fun times we had?” 

“Roger it comes out of my paycheck-”

“Weren’t you just telling me how much money you make?”

“Roger is this really ethical?” 

“Shut up Pete.” 

“I will give you six dollars off.” 

“C’mon Liz.” 

“This is ridiculous!” Pete took a stand. “I can pay the full thing. Roger, go bag the groceries.” 

“Yes sir,” he said, throwing his hands up in hyperbolic defeat. As he slorped away, he made a point of loudly mumbling, “Sue me for trying to bargain, I guess.” 

“Actually, I’ll just take a couple of dollars off so you don’t get cursed.” 

“Sure thing babe,” Pete said, apparently not having retained any of what he heard. Roger managed to catch up with the bagging remarkably quickly, being the common clay of working people. 

“Sorry,” Bonzo said, “can you tell us where we are?” The crone stared back with glassy eyes, full of mistrust. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“So we can leave!” Jimmy shouted from the back. Bonzo turned to his copilot. 

“Can you shut him up?” 

“I can try.” He twisted around while the other John continued to plead with the old woman. “Jimmy, c’mon, please just shut up.”

“This is taking too long! I can feel myself aging; just let me talk to her!”

“You’ll scare her away.”

“I will not! Old people love me!”

“How many old people have you spoken to that aren’t related to you?” In lieu of answering, Jimmy elected to try and slip through the gap between the front seats. Jonesy grabbed each of his wrists, and they wrestled for control like a pair of mayflies stuck together after mating, that is to say feebly. Robert watched all this transpire with the placid disinterest of a golf spectator; at no point did he lift a finger to help either man. 

“What’s going on back there?” The old woman asked, and just as she was finally getting to the point of her meandering story about the founding of wherever they were. 

“Oh, um,” he paused, and briefly looked back, but couldn’t quite understand what exactly was transpiring. “Well, you see ma’am, I volunteer at an insane asylum; those are some of the patients.” 

“Oh how interesting.” He prayed that the others couldn’t hear him. 

“Yeah, I take them out, every now and again, into nature. It’s really therapeutic, and stuff.” 

“That’s why their hair’s so long. I see. I thought you boys were some sort of filthy degenerate subhuman hippies or the like.” 

“No ma’am. The only reason my hair’s like this is to blend in with them, so they feel more comfortable.” 

“You’re very brave.” 

“It’s just, you know, my job and all.” 

“You know, my husband was in the war.” 

“Wow,” was all he could come up with. The crone continued to speak.

Eventually, in the space between the front seats, Jonesy gained control. In a sudden burst of strength, he managed to throw Jimmy all the way back onto the backseat. Robert pointed to the guitarist’s now-tented trousers and simply said, 

“He’s back!” Jonesy recoiled immediately. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“It’s alright, John, if you-”

“No, no, I want an answer! Who hurt you; what made you like this?” 

“Maybe I just think you’re hot?” 

“Yeah Jonesy,” Robert added unnecessarily. “It’s not that deep.” He was left stuttering for something to say. “Maybe we should have a three way.” 

“Yeah that’s not going to happen.” 

“I’m sorry, my body works in mysterious ways.” Jimmy was, for once, correct. The flesh he occupied was (and is) a convoluted labyrinth in which up was down and French fries were healthy. Jimmy paid it no mind, because the moment he tried to think about it, the entire faulty palace would crumble in on itself. 

“I forgive you, Jimmy.” 

“You two should hug!” 

“No Percy.” Jonesy said this exactly as Jimmy said,

“That’s a fantastic idea Percy!” Because they wouldn’t stop looking at him expectantly, Jonesy awkwardly leant forward, so Jimmy could access him, and was promptly dragged backwards and downwards. 

Up front, Bonzo heard the noise. 

“We’d really better be going, ma’am, so if you wouldn’t mind-”

“All right. To get where you’re going, just take the next right and go straight until you reach the insurance billboard. That should be around where the turn off is.” Was it really that simple all along? 

With a quick “Thank you ma’am,” he sped off into the evening. 

Keith hissed, sinking his teeth into John’s forearm. They were in the attic, now the only unclean room in all the house. Why they were there and what they were doing is not what you’d expect, but nothing worth going into. Not in a holiday special, anyway. 

Meanwhile, Roger and Pete entered the house. They found it clean but empty. Suspicious. Where were Keith and John? 

Before Roger was able to ask that question, Pete interceded. 

“Are we sure we want to know?” He asked very softly. Peter’s voice was gradually returning. It helped that he hadn’t spoken for all of their shopping trip. Roger considered, before shaking his head. He looked like a wet poodle, shaking madly until it gave itself brain damage from the constant movement of its skull. Or, at least, that’s what Pete thought he looked like, but lord knows how good he is at imagery. 

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait.” 

“Are you kidding?” 

“No,” Pete said casually, and made his way to the specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair. 

“Pete, we have to bring the food in.” 

“That sounds like a Roger kind of job.” 

“If I carry it all in, will you arrange it?” 

“Arrange it? This is a party for eight people. Eight of the least organized people I’ve ever met.” 

“Five of the least organized people you’ve ever met, and also you, Jimmy, and Jonesy.” 

“I’m already sitting down.” 

“You’re just going to have to get over that.” Pete glowered for a moment. 

The next hour passed in silence, as Roger carried food into the fuckhut and Pete planned out how to arrange it in the most aesthetically pleasing way that he could. Being Pete, he decided to sort the foodstuffs into six categories, the delineation of which was wholly unclear, divide each of them in half, and then mix and match the halves on each of the six tables in the living room. 

“But Pete,” Roger said, “there’s only four tables in here.” 

“What?” 

“Count them. There’s one in the corner, one on the north side, one between your specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair and the unofficial John Entwistle broken wooden death trap, and then that one we hide behind the potted plant because of how ugly it is.” Pete, having had a tiny blip in his plan, scowled emptily. 

“Well, I guess we’ll have to buy more tables.” 

“That’s completely asinine, Pete. Can you not just put two thingies per table?” 

“Does it look like there’s enough room for that?” 

“Does it look like there would be enough room with two more tables? We bought too much food, Pete, we’re just going to have to put some of it away.” 

“But, in order for the aesthetic plan to work, we need six tables.” 

“I’ll go check the attic.” 

That was a mistake. Roger took a few steps back in shock and dismay. He almost fell backwards down the stairs, but managed to grip the bannister with that strange, hulklike strength typical of the breed. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you people!?” 

“Oh, Roger’s home!” 

“Hello, Roger.” 

“Are there any tables up here? We need two of them.” 

“Find them yourself, you lazy bastard.” 

“I’m not opening my eyes until you guys stop.” A few minutes passed, accompanied by mysterious shuffling sounds. 

“Here are your tables.”

“Can I open my eyes?” 

“We aren’t naked anymore,” Keith assured him. 

“That isn’t what I asked you.” More ambiguous noises followed. 

“Okay, it’s safe now.” Roger opened his eyes, and found his view obstructed by several large boxes, all helpfully labeled, “Pete’s stuff do not touch.” Whatever, that was better than- than that thing he’d seen. 

By the time he managed to drag both tables back down to the ground floor, Pete had decided to go with the three tables, but thanked Roger for the effort, which had been wasted entirely. Roger happily informed him that no, actually, he was going to go with the original six-table plan, because he hadn’t permanently scarred his psyche for nothing. Pete asked him what he was talking about. Roger asked him whether he’d seen John or Keith since they arrived. Pete didn’t say another word, but did rearrange everything for the six-table plan. 

Roger groaned when he realized that Pete was attempting to give the event a ‘mystical feel’ by dragging snow inside and putting dry ice in the punch bowl, but figured it wasn’t worth the fight. Eventually, Keith and John came downstairs, bringing enough chairs for eight and pretending that that was the only reason they’d been in the attic. Somebody put a movie on for background noise. They were perfectly set up.

It was another couple of hours before Led Zeppelin arrived. They were visibly ruffled, but seemed generally happy to be there. Roger rushed out to greet them, especially the half of the band that considered him his best friend, before noticing with dismay that Robert was carrying a stack of boxes. 

“Wh- Hi, hi, it’s so nice to see you!” 

“Oh I know it’s been entirely too long-”

“Hey what are those?” Robert looked down. 

“The presents, obviously. Actually, would you mind helping me carry some of them in? Bonzo’s too sore and the Capricorns are too weak and mean, and some of them are kind of heavy, so it’d really help me out if-”

“You brought us presents?” 

“Yeah, of course we did. It’s solstice, after all! What were we going to do, not get you presents?” 

“Oh, oh, um, that’s very thoughtful of you.” 

“Why do you think we were so late?” 

“Wait, did you buy them new?” Robert laughed. 

“No, silly, we went dumpster diving. Of course we bought them new!” He made his way past the shorter singer, to find somewhere to deposit the gifts. “Only the best for my best friend in all the world.” 

“Right, right.” Roger panicked, and tried to covertly call for a Who Huddle. There weren’t enough people there for it to be covert, but Led Zeppelin politely pretended that they didn’t notice, occupying themselves with bringing in the increasingly exorbitant amount of presents they’d bought. 

“Guys- guys, they brought us presents!” 

“We can tell.” 

“This is horrible; we have nothing for them!” 

“I saw a haunted mirror and an old bottle of cough syrup in the attic.” 

“No John.” 

“What are we going to do?” 

“I guess someone’s going to have to go to the store.” Pete moaned. 

“But we just went to the store!” 

“Well it doesn’t have to be you, Pete.” 

“Fine but you can’t go either, Roger.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I’ll miss you.” Wait- did he just express a genuine emotion? In front of the others, no less? Shit, he had to course correct fast. “And you’ll just buy them the first marked-down Halloween decorations you see and call it a day, you useless lazy cheapskate.” 

“You know guys,” Keith suggested, “I could just drive over there and do it myself.” Keith had acquired a driver’s license two weeks ago, and with every day grew increasingly proud that it hadn’t yet been forcibly removed from him. Everyone rolled their eyes. 

“Fine, Keith, you do it. But don’t get them anything stupid.”

“Yeah.” 

“Go somewhere nice.” 

“Of course.” 

“Spend a lot of money.” 

“You don’t need to specify that.” 

“But multiple gifts, for everyone.” 

“Okay.” 

“Get gifts that we can pretend to give each other, too.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And have them wrapped.” 

“Of course.” 

“Okay, bye. Have fun; be safe.” John turned to the group at large. 

“Oh no, guys, we left all the presents at Keith’s house, so he’s going to go grab those really quickly.” 

“Hm? Okay, sure.” They weren’t paying close attention, because they were still unpacking gifts from the vehicle. 

As Keith sped away into the night, the entire stack of gifts was finally indoors, and everyone started taking their coats off. Jimmy took no time in launching himself onto the specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair, apparently strained from carrying four entire boxes a whole yard and a half. Jonesy noticed a bear skin rug, and insisted on dragging Bonzo over to it, pointing and announcing, “Look, John! It’s you!” Meanwhile, Robert immediately found the other singer again and started to wax poetic about the wood beams in the ceiling. 

“Yeah,” Roger huffed out half of a laugh. “Took all summer, but it was worth it, weren’t it?” 

“You did this?” 

“Huh? I mean, yeah, what else was I going to do? Hire someone else?” 

“Could you fix my house?” Robert sounded by far too eager for this prospect. 

“Well that depends; what’s wrong with it?” 

“I’ll think of something.”

John went over and sat directly on Jimmy’s lap, which achieved his intended goal of making the guitarist get over himself and jump back to his feet, startled. He knew guitarists; if he hadn’t done that, James would’ve spent the whole night moping about his imaginary arthritis on that chair, and that wouldn’t be any fun for anyone, now would it? Besides, that was Pete’s chair. He couldn’t let Jimmy infect it with whatever he had. 

“So what’s new with you, Page?”

“Oh, you know,” he tried to be casual. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Staying alive.” 

“Aren’t you working on an album?” Uninvited, Pete swooped into the conversation, like a bald eagle stealing an entire day’s yield of fish. 

“Well, yes, but we aren’t really supposed to be discussing that with, you know, the competition.” 

“Oh, don’t worry Jim,” said John. “We’d never steal any of your ideas.” Jimmy bristled. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You heard me.” 

“I think what he mean, James, my colleague, my friend, my one time lover, is that we have so many of our own ideas-”

“I know exactly what he means, Pete.” They couldn’t be fighting already! Not at a holiday party! There were explicit rules against that, probably, he assumed. There had to be. If there were no rules, how was he supposed to have fun? That wasn’t allowed. Not even a little bit, not even at all. 

“What he meant was that we both have very distinct styles that wouldn’t mesh well with one another, right John?” John didn’t answer. “Right. John.” John rolled his sparkling blue eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah that’s what I meant.” Jimmy’s serpentine chest wasn’t heaving as fast anymore, so Pete considered that a win. 

“Is it a concept album, or?” 

“Pete, how many times do I have to tell you that we don’t do concept albums?”

“Just like you don’t do music festivals?” 

“Exactly.” At this point, the other Johns drifted over to them, apparently bored with whatever Roger and his longer doppelgänger were up to. 

“What are we talking about?” 

“Why you guys don’t do concept albums.” 

“Because they’re dumb and pretentious,” so said the almost-ginger.

“How can they be both dumb and pretentious?”

“I don’t know Pete, but they always manage to.” 

“Actually, we’ve all had ideas for concept albums, but nobody likes anybody’s ideas.” Bonzo seemed similarly concerned with maintaining the right atmosphere. 

“What kind of ideas?” 

“One incredible, amazing idea, and two weird gross ones.” 

“I assume that yours is the great one and the other two are Robert and Jimmy’s?” 

“Of course.” 

“Bonzo’s idea for a concept album is the kind of idea you’d get if you asked my seven year old sister what to write an album about,” Jimmy sneered.

“Are you going to tell us what it is, or?” 

“So,” Bonzo eagerly launched into a pitch, almost as if Pete was going to adopt his idea, “what’s the one thing that everyone loves?” 

“I couldn’t even begin to guess.” 

“Dinosaurs.” 

“I- I suppose, sure.” 

“Baby, even if we take it for granted that people love dinosaurs as much as you say they do- which is a huge if, mind you- I don’t think an album is the medium through which they would express that.” It sounded as if Jonesy was making an effort to tell him this gently, but they could all hear the exasperation in his voice. Bonzo, however, was unassuaged. 

“Okay, well, we can do one of those cross-promotional symbiotic whatevers with a film or something.” 

“From experience,” Pete said, the horrible cretin, “I can tell you: you have to have a very successful and popular album- such as 1969’s triumph Tommy, written and primarily performed by yours truly- before you can even think of a movie.” 

“Maybe you do. But we’re universally acclaimed, and people will jump at the chance to work with us.” 

“Now that isn’t the case at all,” Jimmy said. “That’s not even remotely true, John. Where would you get such an idea?” 

“It’s probably because he can’t read,” Jonesy suggested. Before an argument could start, Pete decided to ask Jimmy what his idea was.

Oh, they’ll love the candles with tits, Keith thought, shoveling the products into his cart. He had not, as instructed, gone to a high-end store, but a backstreet curio shop where he was always the only customer at any given time. It was one of the greatest places in the world to be. At least in the top ten. Maybe top five, depending on the season. 

Keith spotted a necklace in a jar, floating in amber liquid. What was it? Dare he ask? ‘Necklace’ was generous, the thing was little more than a string with several crystallized lumps of various sizes affixed at random intervals. Who would wear that? He turned his attention to the label, hoping that would give some insight. 

The label decreed that the crystallized lumps were detached genital warts, and that the necklace was the property of some university or other, dated seventeen sixty something. They must have used it to teac, although the functionality of such an object was beyond Keith’s compresension. Oh my god. Oh my god, what if this is real? This can’t be real. But what if it is? Dare I?

For the first time in his history with the store, or perhaps of the store itself, Keith pulled an attendant over. 

“I’m sorry, is this. . .”

“Genuine, yeah. The museum didn’t want it, said they got too many complaints. You want it?” 

“You have no idea how much I want it.”

Roger was busy regaling his friend with fishing stories, which Robert did a fantastic job of acting interested in. He was very good at that. A well honed skill, a good half of his appeal to people and maybe a third of his relationship with Jimmy. He nodded along, brow slightly furrowed, head inclined towards the shorter of them, paying attention to few of the words but all of the passion. But then, in a horrific disruption of his communicative bliss, Robert found a plate of dried peach slices upon one of six coffee tables that had been arranged about the room. As he brought it to his wide, thin mouth, he suddenly recoiled. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t think so?” 

“It's just. . . This smells disgusting!” Roger looked closer at the offending fruit. 

“And what is that?” 

“Shouldn’t you know? It’s your house.” 

“Oh, yeah, um, Pete just kind of grabbed whatever looked good, so.” He didn’t know how to conclude the sentence, so he didn’t. Robert sniffed at it again. “Maybe it’ll taste okay?” Percy didn’t need any more convincing, and, curious, took a bite. He chewed for a moment while Roger observed, before swallowing. 

“It tastes good, until it takes a turn and tastes awful.” 

“That’s so bizarre.” 

“It is!” 

“What, is it too bitter, or?” 

“It’s kind of,” Robert tried to imagine how he could ever describe what he’d just experienced. “It was sweet? But musty? And a little bit metallic?” Roger was clearly lost. “Oh, I know! It tastes- and smells, come to think of it- it tastes like. . . Well, not to be indelicate, but, um, well- Roger, have you ever gone down on somebody with syphilis?” Roger balked. 

“I most assuredly have not!” 

“Well, when you do-“

“If.”

“-if you do, just remember, ‘Hm, this is what Robert experienced at that holiday party so long ago.’ And loads of other times before that, obviously, how else would I know-”

“Percy?” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you in the habit of sleeping with syphilitics?” he gasped. “Wait, does Jimmy have it?” Percy laughed again. 

“Not anymore.” Roger stared at him, as if expecting an answer. “Not anymore is the answer to both of your questions.” 

“You’re joking!” 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re not, like, into that, are you?” 

“No, not at all. I just have really bad luck, I guess.” 

“Bad luck?” 

“Well, Roger, being a prostitute is kind of like a box of candies. Sometimes you get delicious treats, but you have to accept that at least half of them are grasshoppers that Bonzo dipped in chocolate, and that’s just life.” A beat passed in terribly awkward silence, so Robert began to laugh. “I’m kidding!” He said, even though he wasn’t. 

“Oh! Oh my god, that’s good. I thought-”

“Just a joke.” 

“Okay, Robert, just so we’re clear, you weren’t actually a prostitute, right?” Robert laughed, in lieu of answering the question. “Robert?” 

“Well, the answer to that is yes, but mostly it’s no. But a little bit yes, too.” Roger looked as confused as he must’ve felt. “The problem, with life and with that question, is, I feel like the line between gifts as a love language and casual prostitution is so vague, you know? At a certain point, it’s hard to tell which one you’re doing.” 

“It really shouldn’t be. I mean, I wouldn’t know, but I feel like if you have to ask yourself which one it is, you’re probably doing the worse one.” 

“Maybe,” he said, with a sort of wistful nostalgia. 

With all of the least appealing sexual paraphernalia he could get his paws on, Keith moved on. He found a tiny, aesthetic little bookstore. That seemed like a good place to acquire gifts. 

Keith made sure to grab some heady Russian literature, which either Jonesy or Jimmy were bound to like, and something with a dragon on it for Robert. But then he had to stop. Bonzo couldn’t read. What should he do? He couldn’t just buy him more of something else; he’d notice and feel left out, obviously. A picture book would be insulting, but he’d derive no pleasure from anything else. 

Keith kept going, assuming that an answer would simply present itself. He found a row of self-help books, and shoveled a copy of every book in the aisle into his cart. He figured one of them was bound to need all of these different things; better to just allow them to pick the ones they wanted.

He also picked out a smorgasbord of books for adolescent girls, for Roger and Pete, because fuck Roger and Pete! Especially Pete. Fuck that guy. 

Eventually, Keith had circled the entire store, and he still hadn’t found anything for his best friend. That was, he assumed, not good. Bad, even. Was he a bad friend? But then, suddenly and out of nowhere, he remembered a conversation he’d had with Bonzo a few months prior.

“You don’t have to read to enjoy books,” he was saying defensively. 

“Yes you do!” Somebody replied. Probably Jonesy, that nag. Honestly how he’d managed to bag someone like Bonzo evaded Keith’s understanding. And John too?! He must give great head. 

“No. Not at all. Books smell nice. They taste nice. Sometimes they come shrink-wrapped with a crochet hook or something. The edges are kinda sharp though, so, be on the lookout for that.”

“I don’t need to be,” said stupid horrible Jonesy. “Because I can enjoy books by reading them, like any first grader!” 

Keith realized that he should end the flashback there, and just go find the best smelling book they had. But how was one to determine which book in an entire storeful smelled the best? He couldn’t just manually go around smelling all of them. . . right?

Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Instead he merely kicked a shelf and selected the first item that fell to the floor. That would have to be good enough. 

“My idea,” Jimmy began to tell the men assembled with an undeserved heroic flourish to his words, “is for an epic account of the sordid history of Ireland. But, like, you know, as a concept album.” 

“I mean, doesn’t that seem in kind of poor taste?” 

“Pete makes an excellent point,” Jonesy was quick to say. “Jimmy’s idea is in terrible taste and the fewer people know about it the better.” 

“My mum’s Irish, it’s fine.” 

“I feel like it isn’t? Like, not even remotely?” 

“You don’t even know anything about Irish history,” Robert pointed out. He and Daltrey had decided to go see what everyone else was so worked up about. 

“I can learn.” 

“I mean, I don’t know, you’re a pretty bad learner baby.” 

“It’s so hard to be me.” Jimmy sat back down on the specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair.

“I just, you know, I feel like if people want to learn about Irish history, I don’t think they want to hear it from four Englishmen, maybe?” 

“I mean, I dunno, I’d think they’d want it in an entertaining rock album, rather than a dry-ass fucking history textbook.” 

“Jimmy, either they hate learning history or they want to learn about history. And, you know, I feel like ninety-nine percent of our target market fall in the former category.” 

“Jonesy, you shouldn’t be so mean about our fans!” 

“Look, I’m just saying, rock and roll fans aren’t the kind of people who learn about history by choice, is all I’m saying.” 

“Well you’re a rock and roll fan.” 

“No I’m not!” 

“Jonesy,” Roger said slowly, “you’re absolutely a fan of rock and roll.” 

“Not really. I don’t like it.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t like it?!” Jimmy sounded very personally offended. 

“I mean, I like our stuff okay. I don’t think it’s bad, I just don’t really like it, you know?” 

“You’re a member of Led Zeppelin!” 

“I’d noticed that, Peter. Thank you for your dazzling insight.” 

“Well, you’ve seen us, haven’t you?” John asked. Jonesy shook his head, letting his hair tremble like the ears of some sad old hound. 

“I’ve never been to a rock concert.” Nobody even spoke. “I mean, I’ve performed at a few, of course.” 

“No, we know that.” 

“Okay, now that we’re all aware that Jonesy’s a weird virgin, let’s go back to my idea!” 

“Your idea is boring. Let’s hear somebody else’s.” Jimmy gaped, open mouthed, at Pete, the one person he thought had understood him, too shocked even to respond. He shook himself. 

“I have another idea too!”

“No you don’t baby.” Jimmy turned to the blonde, even more betrayed. 

“Robert? I thought you liked Sherlock Homeless.”

“Nobody has ever liked Sherlock Homeless, Jimmy. Some dreams have to die- which is also the title of my concept album.”

“I thought that was called Robert Plant: Professional Dolphin.”

“I had to change it for Union reasons. Anyway, it’s actually more than just a concept album- it’s an operetta.”

“Which is a mini opera?”

“No Pete, you stupid fucking idiot. It’s an opera that removes recitative and adds elements of humor and burlesque. That part is key, because it’s extremely sexual in nature.” 

“Oh of course,” Roger said, because he knew Robert very well.

“There’s a wet t-shirt contest, which I win of course, and I’ve written a whole number with Bonzo and some honey, that should be fun, and there’s another song where Jimmy and I make out in a confession booth.” 

“Ew,” quoth the aforementioned twink. 

“I thought you’d be into that! Don’t tell me that’s not the kind of thing you’d be into.”

“I mean, I’ll do it for you, I guess. Is the priest watching, or?” 

“No, James, you are the priest. We make out through that weird netting stuff.”

“And you wonder why Peter keeps vetoing this?” 

“He’ll relent. I wrote that scene with him out of it, so-”

“There was a scene with Peter?” Jonesy apparently hadn’t heard of this development. Robert’s eyes lit up. 

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it!” 

For a final step, Keith ventured into a high end department store, as he was told. It was the kind of place that was designed to make you feel uncomfortable, the kind that took the slightest unfamiliarity and warped it into a strong sense of wrongness, a sense of unworthiness, of unnamed terror. Nothing was familiar, nothing was natural; he’d found himself in an eldritch netherworld where the rules were as rigid as they were arbitrary, and the real world was only a passing vision of no real import. 

That or he was just tired and wanted to get back to the party. 

He tried to walk as quickly as possible, pulling hair products and cosmetics and ceramics into a cart at random, anything that caught his eye and a great many things that didn’t. He felt like the curios and the self-help literature were more than enough for those fuckers, and besides, they could all afford anything they desired. So long as it was expensive, did it really matter what Keith got them? It was the spirit of the thing that mattered, was it not? He’d procured for them candles with tits, what else could anybody want? 

Keith wound through the store with the methodical precision of somebody completely divested from the task at hand, that is to say, very little of it. So it was no surprise to find himself unsure of where he was, and he thought little of it. I’ll teach the other end sometime. 

But he didn’t. No matter where he went, which way he turned, or what products he procured, Keith couldn’t find an exit, a main hallway, anything. It began to perturb him. He wanted to get back to the party as soon as possible. And had it always been so cold in there? Why didn’t it smell like anything? Where was the light coming from when he couldn’t see any windows or fixtures? Why did the shadows seem to move. 

He decided not to dwell on it. Oh, that’s a nice espresso machine. Somebody’s bound to want one of those. 

It felt like a long time had passed before Keith saw another shopper. He was overcome with an unexpected giddiness. Gee, what a moron he’d been, getting scared at a department store. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” They didn’t answer. They didn’t turn around to look at him. They didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. “Hey, sorry, I’ve never been here before-” he stopped. It felt colder. The other shopper, who was walking the same direction as Keith, seemed to get farther and farther away, even though they were moving quite slowly and he continued to pick up his pace. Something in their cart moved, and he decided to turn down into an aisle. 

How could the shelves go so high? Were the lights getting colder too? That wasn’t something lights could do. 

His cart never seemed to be full. 

Eventually, Keith found himself in the clothing section, where an employee was waiting to help. There was nobody else there. 

“Slow business today, huh?” he asked jovially, perusing the men’s section. Nothing there seemed to be to anybody’s taste, but he liked that there was another person there. Or at least there seemed to be. The employee never responded to him. When Keith looked up, he realized he’d forgotten the man’s face. He did so again as soon as he looked away. And again. And again. It seemed like the employee asked if he’d like a changing room, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“No, thank you.” 

What was the name of this place, anyway? He’d never been there before. It didn’t seem like anyone else knew about this place either. There had just been the one other shopper, and- and- Had there been anyone else? It seemed like there must have been. But he couldn’t remember. He. He was. He was named something. He was someone. He had to have been. He was. He was. 

Keith steered his cart right into a wall. What a dumbass! Immediately, a pretty young sales assistant rushed to him. 

“Jesus, slow down there, pal!” she half-joked, concerned. Keith look up at the bustling store, the short shelves, the tacky electric chandeliers and the gauche Christmas decorations everywhere. 

“Sorry, I guess I must’ve zoned out.” 

“Yeah, you came out of nowhere!” 

“I must’ve.”

When he returned from that nightmare, Keith found that the party had loosely separated into two groups, the Johns and the others. He immediately gravitated towards the Johns, forgetting the gifts in the car.

“Oh, hi Keith!” The Johns turned to face him, all in unison. Somehow the tone was defensive, as if they’d been discussing something he wouldn’t have liked to find out about. But they wouldn’t do that, so he didn’t worry about it. 

“Hello, John. Did I miss anything?” 

“Nothing worth hearing.” Jonesy sounded distinctly unhappy, but what else was new? 

“Are you sure? What did you say John?” 

“I proposed an unsettling hypothetical.” 

“Was it the one about popping nipples like acne?” The other Johns winced, and his own John smiled. 

“’Twas indeed.” 

“Oh, I know,” they heard Pete say loudly, apparently having regained his voice of a sudden. “What’s the weirdest date you’ve ever been on?” 

“I couldn’t possibly give you an answer to that; there have simply been too many. I’ve probably forgotten most of them.” 

“Percy what are you talking about? We don’t go on dates.” 

“Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, I wouldn’t call them dates, the things we did. I just sort of figured that’s what you thought they were.” 

“Why would I call anything we do together a date?” 

“I don’t know, Jim. Why do you do anything you do?” Keith and the Johns had started to eavesdrop. 

“I guess, to answer your question Pete, I’d say the weirdest date we’ve ever gone on was the time we went out hiking barefoot, to ‘connect with nature’ or whatever, and I stepped on a nail and had to get tetanus shots. That was fun.” Robert scowled. 

“Well it’s usually a really transcendent experience, if some bastard hadn’t tried to build a stupid fucking treehouse or whatever it was.” 

“Well it wasn’t fun regardless. There were rocks and shit.” 

“I mean, I’m no Don Juan, James. It obviously wasn’t as seductive as that day you made me drive you around the highway all day, only occasionally stopping so you could photograph roadkill.” 

“Oh my god,” Keith forgot to pretend he hadn’t been listening to them. “Does Jimmy do that too?! That’s John’s favorite.” 

“Really? I figured only Jimmy would be so inconsiderate and damaged that- We should go on a double date some time! Wouldn’t that be fun!? They can talk about death, and you and I can be normal!” 

“I’ll try my hardest, Plant.” Against all odds, Keith really did like Robert, but he felt like there was maybe a two percent chance that this idea turned out well. Best case scenario, neither couple was on speaking terms for a week. Pete was bored of this conversation, apparently. 

“What about you guys? John and John? What was your weirdest date?” 

“Definitely the one where Bonzo just introduced me to all of his little cows.” 

“I thought you liked that!” 

“John the question was not the worst date I’ve been on, but the weirdest. And I think even you must admit that that was sort of. . . Unorthodox.” 

“I guess.” He paused. “They loved you!” 

“I have nothing against your cows John! They’re very cute.” 

“Damn right they are.” 

“What about you, Keith and John, my two closest coworkers?” Was Pete mad at Roger now? It was so hard to keep up. John turned to Keith.

“I dunno, we’ve had some great ones.” By this point the two groups were nearly totally merged. “What do you think, Keith?” 

“Uhh, gee, that’s hard. But I definitely think I’d say it was that time you hired that guy to kill me.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, yeah, remember that?” 

“Oh yeah. That was just a joke though.” 

“Well, somebody forgot to tell him that.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah! I spent all day running, kind of expecting him to turn out to be a stripper or something, but that just didn’t happen.” 

“Oh. Wait, but then, shouldn't you be dead? ‘Cause I don’t remember seeing that guy again, so, what happened?” 

“I got Roger to punch him out in exchange for a corn chip.” Everyone’s heads turned towards Roger, who shrugged. 

“I don’t remember it, but that sounds like the kind of thing I’d do.” 

“Yeah, we put him in a dumpster as a hilarious prank, and luckily I never saw him again.” 

“That’s insane,” said Robert, who was really in no place at all to judge. The odds that a hitman would be heading his way, courtesy of a Mister Page, as soon as he outlined his purpose were incredibly high, Keith assumed.

“You must’ve been on your share of strange dates, Townshend.” John said this with this strange tension, as if they both knew the specific incident being referred to, while nobody else did. It honestly made Keith’s blood boil, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know.” 

“That stupid art house film, for one thing.” 

“Which one?” Pete was confused. 

“I don’t even know how to describe it. There was the clown who aged backwards, and all these color segments with a dog who I think was supposed to be Jesus, and Jimmy had a brief cameo-“

“What? I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah they just kind of zoomed in on you smoking on a balcony from the one above, you must not’ve noticed. There was also this plotline about a high schooler who discovers there are teeth in her locker? But that got thrown out halfway through, so.” 

“Oh, yeah, that must’ve been ‘Töte Moi Leise, Mais Nicht Jusqu'à Nach Ma Wichtig Rencontre Auf Lundi, Danke Cher- O! Sind Tue Gehen Á Ein Boutique? Dann Ici, Nehmen Cette Geld Et Kaufen Moi Ein Limonade Und Une Karton De Eir.’ Yeah, I’m sorry I dragged you to that.” 

“Oh did you guys see that one? I found it rather trite.” Jonesy has allegedly seen this film as well. 

“I mean, I get what he was trying to do, I just think his use of cinematic language is really pedantic, you know?”

“Oh I understand completely; all his films are like that. I honestly don’t know why anyone bothers with him anymore.”

“It was the success of ‘Un Erdbeere Lampe Con Segreti De La Etat De La Birne.’” He grimaced.

“And even that wasn’t the masterwork everyone seemed to think it was. If you’ve seen Der Ausbruch des Sommers Foncée, all the techniques are the same.” 

“Yeah, I dunno, it seemed like he had potential, if only he could learn how to fucking block.” Pete and Jonesy both laughed at that, making Keith panic a little, feeling excluded. But what to say?

“I didn’t know you spent all your time sucking off some nicotine-soaked Frenchmen, Pete. Although, all things considered, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Everyone laughed, albeit weakly.

“It’s okay Pete, it’s not a sin to appreciate quality, artistic cinema,” Jonesy said, clearly quite proud of himself.

“‘Quality, artistic cinema,’” Roger snorted. “Like what? Foxy sorority hazing pillow-fight part nine?” 

“See, I couldn’t watch that one past part five,” Bonzo said, ostensibly joking?

“Well, yes,” Keith agreed, “part five is the worst, but it picks up considerably from there. Part five is naught but a temporary low, I assure you.” 

“I dunno, it just seemed like, long term, they knew they had to keep upping the stakes, but after part four that was really hard to do without just completely ruining it, so, that’s what did it for me.” 

“I mean, if that was your issue with part five, then you’re not going to like the rest.” 

“You know, Jonesy,” Pete was saying, “I have some reels from the original cut of ‘La Pianta Di Edera Che Mi Odiava’ up in the attic, if you’d like to see that.” Jonesy perked up. 

“That one from 1918?”

“The very same.” 

“Oh please!” They sped away. The staircase was covered in mystery liquid, which they didn’t want to address but which ensured that it was unsafe to travel up the stairs at the rate they were. Instead, Jonesy and Pete leapt into the elevator, so excited that Jonesy didn’t even make any pithy remarks about having an elevator installed in a two story house, and Pete didn’t notice the unusual smell coming from the shaft. 

Then, all of a sudden, just as they reached the top floor, the lights flickered. That wasn’t good. Nor was the way the doors only opened about an inch before ceasing to move entirely. 

“I know how much the series means to people, and I don’t want to undermine that, I just feel like it’s kind of sad that such a visionary director as Johnny Lust is chained to this dead franchise instead of working on new projects, you know?” The porno symposium continued in its corner, while everybody else dispersed around the various tables. With Pete gone, Roger ended up at the same table with Jimmy, and soon grew preoccupied with the table itself, as one of the legs was shorter than the others, and tilting it back and forth was mesmerizing. Roger was essentially a toddler, only in that it took depressingly little to entertain him. While he was doing that, out of the blue, Jimmy turned to him with a bottle in hand. 

“Dare me to drink the whole thing?” 

“What?” 

“Do you dare me to drink all of this?” He shook the unopened bottle around for emphasis, frothing its contents. 

“Are you sure you want to drink an entire bottle of peanut butter whiskey?” 

“That’s besides the point. Do you dare me to or not?” 

“I dunno, it just seems like this is entirely your idea.” 

“No it’s not,” he started screwing the top off, wrapping his fingers around the bottle top like getting a handjob from the handles of five plastic spoons. “You’re the one daring me.” 

“I didn’t even.” Jimmy eyed the bottle, and started to suspiciously sniff at the contents. They smelled of Reese’s peanut butter cups and cleaning fluid; the ideal afternoon treat. 

“Maybe it’ll take two, if it tastes as awful as it smells.” 

“Jimmy, you know that’s supposed to be for everyone, right? You can’t have the whole thing.” 

“Nobody else will ever want this! Who in the world wants peanut butter whiskey?” 

“You, apparently.” 

“Yes, but only because I have no taste.” 

“How on earth are you going to drink the whole thing?” 

“I can drink entire bottles of things in one go. It’s a skill that I’ve honed over many years.” Jimmy sounded so ridiculously proud of himself, Roger didn’t have the heart to be mean. 

“Good for you.” 

“It’s actually not good for him,” Robert interjected from table five. “We wish he would stop.” 

“I’m doing everyone a favor,” Jimmy argued, ignoring his lover in favor of Roger. “We’re going to need an empty bottle for spin the bottle.” 

“We’re not playing spin the bottle!” John also joined the conversation. “Not after last time!” 

“What happened last time?” Roger asked Jimmy. “And when was last time?” 

“Oh, well, back when the Yardbirds disbanded and I tried to steal your rhythm section from you, me and them and Becky and I think Jonesy was also there? We had this great little night together while I tried to seduce them to my new band.” 

“Oh.” 

“Anyway John’s just mad because- well, I guess, it turns out that STDs can be transmitted orally! Who knew?!” 

“Most people,” Roger said after a considerable pause, spent waiting for Jimmy to laugh and thereby reveal that it was a joke and he wasn’t actually that stupid. The aforementioned twink merely shrugged. 

“Well, I know now, I suppose.” At that, he brushed his hair out of his face, tilted his head back, and lifted the tip of the bottle to his lips very erotically. Roger didn’t bother trying to stop him, instead watching with a dreadful fascination as the amber liquid disappeared, one horrid chug after another. 

Jonesy and Pete had spent a solid five minutes trying to pry the doors open, straining what little muscle they had between them, but to no avail. Pete wondered what else they could do. 

“Just jump, that should send it down.” They tried. Many times. Again, in vain. “Fuck.” 

“Why isn’t it working?” 

“We don’t weigh enough,” Pete explained. John’s eyebrows shot up, although he really had no right to be that surprised. 

“Well then.” 

“Well then indeed.” 

“I guess we’re just doomed.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” About five minutes passed in silence. Pete tried to open the doors by mashing the button that was supposed to do that, and then when that didn’t work, all of the others. The doors closed all the way, and nothing he did yielded any results.

“I can’t believe we’re trapped,” Jonesy finally said, deciding that now was the time for a soliloquy. “I mean, this should be so easy to open. This should not be a problem for us.” 

“It’s okay Jonesy,” Pete said unsteadily, entirely unsure of what to say. He was generally unskilled when it came to even the most frivolous of emotions; this aspect of the situation was almost more terrifying than the practical reality of their imminent demise. 

“No, no it isn’t! It’s not at all okay! We’re trapped in an unnecessary elevator in a two story house and now we’re going to die because we’re too lightweight to jump and too weak to open the doors. Actually,” he paused. “You know what, no, I’m glad. If we can’t pry the door open, this is for the best. Fuck us, we deserve to die. The species is about to get stronger.” 

“It’s not like we were going to reproduce anyway.” 

“You don’t know that, uggo.” 

“Don’t you ‘uggo’ me! It’s not my fault.” 

“No it isn’t, is it? I’m sorry Pete.” 

“You know,” Pete said a half hour later (or, what felt like a half hour to them. It was, in actuality, about eight minutes), “not to be crass, but- well, since we’re going to die soon anyway,” Jonesy raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Do you think- Jonesy, do you want to die a virgin?” 

“That ship sailed long ago, my friend.” 

“Really?” 

“Fuck you.” Another ten minutes passed. 

“Do you think it’s daylight yet?” 

“Who knows?”

“They’ll surely notice that we’re missing.” 

“I don’t know John, it’s been a while.” 

“We aren’t that forgettable, are we?” He started to sound genuinely hurt. Pete panicked. 

“It’s not that we’re forgettable, it’s that they’re all stupid, and almost definitely drunk by now.” He thought this would be reassuring, even daring to place a hand on the other’s shoulder. Jonesy didn’t push him away. “I mean, they’re probably all passed out. They’ll come let us out when they wake up. I know it.” 

“You’re right,” he still didn’t sound sure. 

It had been an hour, and so far, everything was going as usual. 

“Jonesy and Pete have been gone a while, ” John realized aloud, missing a full sixty six percent of the people he liked.

“It has been a minute, hasn’t it?” 

“Do you think they’re. . . You know?” Jimmy ran a finger through the circle he’d made with his other hand, to indicate an intimate act. 

“No, Jonesy would never do that to me.” 

“How can you sound so sure, John?” Robert wanted to know. 

“It’s because I am sure,” Bonzo explained as if it was the most simple, straightforward thing in the world. Maybe it was. Maybe it was supposed to be. Wait, fuck, no, Robert began to internally panic. Quick, somebody make a sex joke before I start thinking about my relationship. 

“I bet they’re having sex.” 

“Thank you, Keith.” 

“That’s not possible; we’ve covered this.”

“Okay, then what are they doing?” Nobody had an answer. So, of course, what was there to do but go on a search? 

They weren’t anywhere to be seen on the ground floor, nor could anybody find them above. That was disconcerting. Where could they be? 

“We’ve searched every inch of the house,” Keith was thinking aloud, and everyone chose to listen. “Where else could they be? Why would they leave?” 

“I mean, maybe they went up on the roof.” 

“Okay, how do we get to the roof?” 

“The only way is the elevator.” 

“So let’s get to the elevator!” They found the elevator was broken. Another ten minutes passed while Roger grew increasingly frustrated with the dysfunctional buttons. John finally figured it out. 

“If they’re missing, and the elevator’s broken, do you think. . .?” 

“Oh my god they’re stuck in there!” 

“Good job, Bonzo.” 

“I really think we should have sex,” Pete said. They were sitting in a corner, huddled together for warmth. 

“I don’t.” 

“Maybe we could just sixty nine, then?” 

“Maybe.” 

“How about if another hour passes?” 

“Fine.” Another four minutes passed. Pete got closer. 

“Oh, I won’t do kissing though, so, just be aware of that.” 

“Jesus Jones, you sound like a bus station hooker.” 

“I feel like one.” 

“You look like one too. Wait, I’m sorry, that isn’t true,” 

“We both know it is.” 

“I mean, if you added make up, maybe.” 

“Is this really how I’m going to die? Couldn’t I just, I don’t know, be beheaded or strangled or something?”

“We won’t die, don’t worry.” 

“Right but if we do I want us to talk about something else.” Eight hundred seconds passed. 

“You know the worst thing?” Pete lifted his head as Jonesy spoke.

“What, John?”

“I am kind of a hooker.” 

“Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself-”

“No, like, I used to model for a porno magazine.” 

“Wait, for real?”

“They were just of my feet, so. . .” Pete’s jaw dropped. “That’s not that bad, is it? I mean, it’s not like they know who I am.”

“Jonesy, how did you end up in that circle? Do you. . . Do you like that kind of thing?” Pete had only recently found out that John wasn’t a virgin; that he participated in a kink community was unutterably shocking. 

“What? No, I think it’s weird, but they pay a lot of money. Ludicrous amounts of money. Blasphemous amounts of money. Sacrilegious amounts of money. Like, the kind of money that it feels stupid to turn down, you know? And it’s just my feet; that’s not an intimate thing to let other people see.” 

“Wait, but then, how did you find out about it?” 

“This guy approached me at a beach, and he offered me a lot of money for one picture. Initially I denied this to him, because ew, so he gave me a business card that offered ridiculously high rates, and we got in contact.” 

“Can I see your feet?” 

“Ew, no!”

“No, I just- what makes an attractive foot, to those people? I’m genuinely curious.” 

“Well, mine aren’t that attractive to most of them. They’re a niche preference, apparently.” 

“Really?”

“That’s what he told me. I guess it’s like when people think you or I are attractive. Like, it isn’t untrue, but it’s very much different from common standards.”

“What’s special about your feet?” 

“They’re very long? Like, my toes especially, they’re quite long, and sort of spaced out. That’s a crucial part, apparently, the toes have to be spaced out.” They’d both completely forgotten the dire situation, now entirely occupied with the horrifying prospect of somebody masturbating to the apparently slender feet of John Paul Jones. 

“That’s so fucking strange.” 

“Yeah, I know. It’s weirder, too, that he had to tell everyone that I was a woman.”

“What.” Pete could barely even phrase it as a question, such was his surprise. 

“Yeah, he wanted me to paint my nails, so that the customers would think it was a girl’s foot. Like, they weren’t looking at me at all with any sort of interest, but apparently it ruins the fantasy if they. . . enjoy. . . pictures of a man’s foot.” 

“Did you?” 

“Did I?” 

“Paint your nails, I mean.” 

“He did offer lots of extra money for that, but it felt like a line that I didn’t want to cross.”

“Do you still. . .”

“No, god no. I got a real job.” 

“Wait when were you selling those pictures?”

“I think I was sixteen?”

“Is that legal?” 

“I mean, again, it was just my feet. It’s not like there were any identifying details or anything.” Suddenly, the elevator jolted and began to fall. 

“Oh, right, we’re in an elevator!” Pete screamed as Jonesy simply yelped. They clung together, ready to meet whatever aesthetically challenged reprobate had created them. 

When they landed, it was surprisingly gently. John let out a little, “oh!” that, and I cannot impart this enough, sounded exactly, precisely, perfectly like Judy Garland’s first post-twister line in The Wizard of Oz. They sounded the same to such an extent that Pete’s confusion at this distracted him entirely from the situation at hand. He was too frightened and shocked even to acknowledge it. The doors started to creak. 

“Don’t worry,” it was Roger’s voice. Pete suppressed an indignant “we’re not worried!” which would be unhelpful and rude. “We’re going to get you out of there!” 

“Soon,” Bonzo added. 

“I knew you’d come for me some day!” 

“Some day? Jonesy it’s been maybe twenty minutes.” 

Another few minutes passed. There was some muffled dialogue on the other side of the door. The doors creaked again. 

“So,” Pete whispered, “it’s definitely going to be later rather than sooner, yes?” 

“Oh undoubtedly. That’s what happens when the only smart people are the ones who get trapped.” There was a distinct clattering; those leptons were using a hammer, weren’t they?

“Do you think we have time to have sex?” 

“Drop it.” Pete nodded. 

“Fair enough.” The hammering stopped, and they could hear a blended din of British distress.

“Please hurry,” Pete shouted suddenly, in a surprisingly vulnerable voice. “It’s so cold!” 

“Pete if you’re that cold I can-”

“I’m not,” Pete interrupted the bassist's concern. “Not really. I’m just very good at being pathetic.” 

“Oh boy, I hope there’s a tragic backstory behind that.”

“There is! I really wanted to be Oliver in our school’s production of it, so I spent all my time learning to be the perfect Dickensian urchin/waif. But it was all for naught; they wouldn’t cast me because I was too ugly and I was failing five classes but mostly I think it was the nose.” Jonesy snorted. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh-”

“That’s right, you shouldn’t! That was a very traumatic episode for me.”

“-but that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Actually,” Pete looked him up and down with the cold efficiency of a serial killer. “You’d be a good tragic waif.” 

“Thank you?” 

“I mean, more of a Victor Hugo tragic waif than a Dickens type, for sure.” 

“Thank you?” 

“You’re very delicate and effete, sort of pretty, very pale,” 

“Thank you.” 

“If we just got you a crutch or killed your parents, that’d be perfect.” 

“Thank you?” 

“Try it!” 

“John?” He tried to ask imploringly. 

“What do you want?”

“Yes dear?” Both Johns answered. I think you can tell which one said what. 

“You must hurry! I’m forgetting your face already!” 

“Already? Jesus Christ,” they heard Keith exclaim. 

“Well it’d go quicker if Roger wasn’t so worried about us breaking his goddamned elevator.” 

“Roger!” Pete screeched, loud enough that Jonesy had to physically cover his ears. “Are you kidding me!? We could die!” 

“That’s a lie and we both know it!” Roger was even louder. 

“Our noses being so large, we suck up more air! We’re going to run out!” 

“That’s bull shit!” 

“Oh, right, I’m sorry Roger, I forgot about how you’re a practicing physicist. Oh, wait, that’s right, you’re not! You’re a high school dropout who can’t count past thirty! So why don’t you shut up and listen to me!” 

“Or you could listen to the one experienced carpenter here,” Bonzo said, to no one in particular. “Crazy idea.” There was another spell of silence. The doors creaked mightily, as it seemed they were trying to pull it apart with pure brute force. Jonesy adjusted his hair. Wisely, he and Pete had both selected the strongest member of their respective bands as a mate, and were therefore the best suited for a dramatic, romantic rescue scenario. Eventually, the doors separated enough for somebody to wedge a crowbar through the gap. As the gang tried to pry the doors open, somebody else made their way to the gap and placed a single eyeball in front of it. 

“Can you see my eye?!” Keith asked excitedly. “Because it can see you!” 

“That is sort of its one stated purpose, innit?” The eye narrowed, apparently angry.

“Bonzo, Roger, they’re having sex in there!” 

“They’re very clearly not,” Bonzo said casually. Roger agreed, 

“Yeah, I’d be able to smell it.

“Yes, actually we are! We’re having sex! It’s so hot and moist-” 

“Pete I will strangle you before they can even rescue us.” 

“C’mon Jonesy, play along!” He whispered as if this was a grand idea.

“No!”

“It’ll be hilarious!” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Just say it! C’mon, just say it! Say, ‘Fuck me crosseyed daddy longlegs!’”

“I beg your pardon!?” Jonesy slid to the other side of the elevator. “I will be saying none of that, thank you very much.” He murmured, “Daddy longlegs,” with the sort of indignant derision that could only come from a true virtuoso in the sport. “John! John you have to get me out of here! It’s awful!”

“We’re trying our best!”

“Well clearly that isn’t working! Try harder!”

“Maybe you could help.”

“Baby I can’t hear you it’s too dark in here.”

“Maybe we should just leave them in there.” Robert suggested casually, absentmindedly playing with a necklace he’d stolen. 

“Robert,” Roger tried to be patient, “they could literally die.” 

“Well I had a near death experience tonight too. And I got myself out of it on my own.” 

“Sure you did.” 

“No, really! I’m telling the truth, John.” 

“We would’ve noticed,” Jimmy incorrectly asserted. 

“You didn’t!” 

“What even happened?” 

“Well,” 

An hour ago, Robert Plant was minding his own business, trying to socialize, as one does. As Roger, his one lifeline in the trio he’d found himself in, drifted away from the punch table, Robert began to panic. The only thing he had in common with John was an upsetting preoccupation with the concept of death, but Jimmy had been very clear that he wasn’t supposed to talk about that at parties. Especially not parties for generic nondenominational winter holidays that don’t have a set date so it isn’t technically late! What was he going to do? 

To make matters worse, John apparently had little regard for the social contract. He simply stopped talking and quietly sipped his punch, which some idiot had spiked with fucking dry ice. Robert choked down the smoke to get to what he was certain would be a wonderful beverage, trying to save time. John stared at him. Robert racked his brain trying to come up with something to say, something to do. He mindlessly scanned the snack table, looking for a party trick, when completely out of nowhere and the blue, an idea occurred to him. 

“You want to see a really cool party trick?” 

“Why not?” John still sounded bored. 

“Okay, okay, this is going to be really cool.” He picked up a brownie. “Is there grass in this?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Of course not.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to swallow this whole!” Yeah, Robert figured he could do that. After all, he’d managed to deepthroat entire bullwhips before with only minimal gagging; how hard could this be? John raised an eyebrow; that was something. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Okay, okay I’m going to do it.” What have you gotten yourself into, Rob? Okay, think, how would you normally accomplish this? “I’ve got to get on my knees first.” 

“Why?” He was already on the floor. 

“That’s just part of it.” Percy had a moment of clarity. He realized that he was taking a very serious risk just to impress somebody who wasn’t likely to give it a second thought, whether he succeeded or not. But, on the other hand, it was a bit late to back out now. So, with a deep breath, Robert lowered the baked good straight past his mouth and into his waiting throat. 

At first, it seemed to be going fine. He made little swallowing motions with the muscle, trying to build up a rhythm, breathing through his nose. John looked casually over him, watching with fascination for a few seconds, before Keith’s little voice rang out. He was clearly asking for one of the other Johns, or at least it seemed clear to Robert, but the ox left nonetheless. Just as Percy was trying to defy basic anatomy. Rude. 

Then, he noticed how heavy the brownie was, how dense, how dry. It felt like it was making some progress down his throat, but was it, actually? At that point, was it better to try and choke it up? He didn’t think he was going to choke it down any time soon. But where would that put him? Kneeling alone at a party, holding a saliva-slicked baked good that he was now realizing was almost definitely store-bought? Disgusting. He’d rather die.

Suddenly, it ceased to be a choice. Robert could feel his throat constricting around the brownie, trying to expel it. But it wouldn’t budge; the damned thing was stuck. It was stuck. Oh god in heaven. Robert tried to relax, tried to breathe through his nose, but the panic was unavoidable. His airway was blocked, and he was going to die. Obviously. 

Robert’s first instinct, sadly, was to find Jimmy. Surely, he’d know what to do. But, with his minimal airflow and rampant hysteria, he couldn’t manage to stand all the way up. So, struggling in every conceivable way, Percy painstakingly made his way across the floor, hoping that somebody would notice and take interest in his plight. Nobody did. 

Finally, Jimmy, and therefore hope, was in his sight. Robert made his way towards his lover. 

“I don’t know,” Pete was saying, “I think most Catholics would be pretty tame, right?” Jimmy shook his head. Robert watched, bewitched from the floor, as his artificial ringlets caught the light in a multitude of colors and angles, infinite beauty. He tried to suck in a stunned breath, but he couldn’t, because he was choking to death. 

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Catholic school is what turns you into a freak. Isn’t that right, Bonzo?” 

“Oh I didn’t go to Catholic school.”

“Right, but Jonesy did.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I mean, not always sexually per se, but yes.” Robert touched Jimmy, who instinctively pulled his hand away without looking. 

“Bible camp especially. Look, if you went to bible camp, you like to be pissed on, bare minimum. Or, more likely, you want to be pissed on, and you hate yourself for it.” Somebody said something else while Robert tried to produce a sound that would catch Jimmy’s attention. He failed. “All I’m saying is they take you to this barely-supervised woodland paradise with a bunch of other adolescents, they make you look at all these paintings and carvings and stuff of this beautiful man, all naked and sweaty and tied up, and then what, they expect you to not give Jeff a handjob behind the bathrooms? Give me a break.” Jeff? Why was he talking about Jeff?! Robert decided to go find Roger, so he could at least die appreciated. 

While he was making his way away from Jimmy, Robert laid eyes upon the snack table where this had all begun. While he was ruminating on the mistakes of the past, he noticed the punch. And, all at once, the answer became obvious. If he could lubricate the thing, it would slide either down or up, and he would be fine! Robert crawled over, still on his knees. Having such a beautifully long torso, he managed to pour himself a glass without getting off of his knees. 

“I’ll spare you the gross details,” Robert said in the current times, while Roger and Bonzo continued to hammer at the door. By this point, he and Jimmy had both ceased to pretend to contribute to the effort, with the latter stroking the former’s back in an attempted apology. Keith boo’d. His bassist agreed. 

“Yeah, Goldilocks, don’t blueball us now!” 

“What is going on out there?” They could hear Jonesy yell. Nobody bothered to answer him. 

“I crawled out to the backyard and vomited it like a cat with a hairball.” 

“Ew.” 

“Oh my god how could I not notice?” 

“It’s okay baby, you were busy talking about Jeff, I understand why you wouldn’t notice me dying on the floor.” Robert fully planned on taking advantage of this little misadventure. 

“Oh, Percy, you have no idea how sorry I am.” 

“Aw, it’s okay baby.” He tried to sound sort of morose, like it wasn’t really okay at all. 

“No, no it isn’t! I’ve failed you.” Robert strategically didn’t say anything. “What can I do to make it up to you?” 

“Oh, that’s fine, you don’t have to do anything.” 

“No, really, anything in the world! Just say it.” 

“Maybe I’ll think of something later.” 

“You shall want for nothing.” 

“Aww, thank you baby!” 

Jonesy and Pete soon saw light, as the hammering stopped and the Neanderthals managed to break on through to the other side. They both sprang up to greet the others. As Roger kicked the remainder of the door in, Jonesy very delicately stepped over the wreckage and enjoyed a very affectionate embrace with his drummer. Pete, on the other hand, decided to speak. 

“Ha, you had to break your precious elevator!” 

“Are you serious, Pete? You’re so fucking useless we had to come save you!” 

“You took several hours to notice that we were missing, because you’re so stupid!” 

“You suck,” 

“I hate you.” 

“I hope something really unpleasant happens to you!” 

“You don’t even have the balls to hope that I die!” 

“Because you almost just did!” 

“Ha! Pussy! Like you’d care if I died!” 

“Maybe I would Pete, I don’t know, let’s find out.” 

“Why don’t we just go back to the party?” Robert helpfully said. 

The excitement being over, finally, they all drifted back to the living room, and had a somewhat understandably difficult time trying to get back into the swing of things.

“What should we do now?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, we can’t open presents until midnight, and all the punch is gone.” 

“I can do sexy shadow puppets!” Robert offered. 

“Any shadow puppet would be a sexy shadow puppet if you did it, baby.” 

“Aww, thank you Jimmy!” 

“I don’t want to see that,” Pete said, speaking for everybody. Because he’d also almost died just then, they decided to give him veto power.

“I guess there’s nothing to do but sit and wait with our hands folded in our laps.” 

“I have another game!” Robert declared. 

“No you don’t Robert.” 

“C’mon Jonesy, it’s a good one.” 

“Is it stupid?” 

“No.” 

“Sexual?” 

“Not even a little bit.” 

“Violent?” 

“Mm-mm.” He shook his head. 

“Needlessly cruel?” 

“No sir it isn’t.”

“Inexplicably anti-Irish?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“I’ll allow it.”

“Well, if Jonesy agrees, I guess there’s nothing the rest of us can do.” Nobody was fully on board for whatever that was, but they felt so bad for the poor thing, what with his near-death and all, that they just let him. 

“I’ll start,” Robert said as everyone gathered into a loose circle. “The rules should be pretty intuitive, so, just pay attention.” He cleared his throat. “When Jimmy Page is angry, he experiences,” Robert paused for comedic effect, “Jimmy Rage.” Jimmy groaned. “When Jimmy Page performs, he does so on a. . . Jimmy Stage.”

“Please stop.” 

“When Jimmy Page renews his passport, he has to update his. . . Jimmy Age.” 

“I wish you would never do this ever again.” 

“You can do me if you’d like.” 

“After the party, babe.” 

“No, I meant what with the rhyming- never mind. When Jimmy Page hurts me and tries to heal it by himself, he burns some. . . Jimmy Sage!” 

“When Robert Plant,” Jimmy started, and they turned to watch with bated breath, “eats outdoors, he might attract a. . . Robert Ant.” 

“That was a good try baby!” Robert tried to be encouraging, but Jimmy picked up on the condescension in his tone and narrowed his eyes, incensed. 

“If Robert Plant was smart enough to go to college, which he isn’t,” Jimmy was apparently trying to gently tease, but it came out sounding a little too real, “he might pay for some of it in the form of a. . . Robert Grant.” 

“Well that’s just fucking stupid,” Robert returned, equally hostile all of a sudden. “Here’s a better one: If Robert Plant got tired of Jimmy Page’s constant whining and hurtful actions, and decided to leave for a better man who could treat him right, he might become-”

“When John Paul Jones,” Jonesy blurted out, eager for the fighting to stop but clearly unsure of what his next words would be. He paused, madly scrambling for something to say. “When John Paul Jones has to listen to Robert Plant and Jimmy Page argue about their relationship nonstop every day for three years in what is supposed to be a professional environment, he. . . John Paul Groans.” Robert squealed. 

“Jonesy, you did it!” He embraced the gingery bassist as if he had accomplished a difficult task. 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

“When Robert Plant,” Jimmy had another go at it, “is drunk, and he walks sort of tilted, he’s at a. . . Robert Slant.” 

“I like that one, Jimmy!”

“Thank you baby. I’m sorry that I called you stupid. You could go to college if you wanted to, probably.” 

“I know, that was pretty rude, especially considering you only got into art college, which is almost worse than nothing.” 

“You’re right baby.” 

“I forgive you, but only because it’s solstice.” 

“Actually, solstice was a while ago.” 

“Wait, really?” 

“Yeah, we wasted so much time planning this thing that it’s actually been a while.”

“We’re idiots.” Pete realized. 

“Do me!” Roger excitedly asked. 

“Nothing rhymes with Daltrey, I’m sorry to say. Also, the rhythm kind of relies on the surname only having one syllable.” Roger nodded soberly, reflecting on his loss, just as Bonzo decided to have a go himself.

“Ah, I’ve got it: when somebody picks John Paul Jones up roughly, like a rag doll, and throws him against a wall so as to-”

“If you don’t stop right now I will run away to Belgium and you will never see me again.” Jonesy managed to say a full sentence without unclenching his freakishly sharp jaw. 

“No, please, continue,” Jimmy said, far too eagerly. 

“Anyway the punchline is that he John Paul Moans. Do you guys like it?” 

“No.” They all managed to say this simultaneously. 

“Hm,” he nodded, “retroactively, I see why.”

“If Jimmy Page,” Robert chugged along unobstructed, “was captured by poachers, they’d put him in a. . . Jimmy Cage.” 

“Why would poachers capture me?” 

“For your beautiful hide.” Percy said this as if it was a sweet compliment, rather than the creepiest thing either of them had heard or would ever hear. He tried to stroke Jimmy’s hair, as if to display what hide he was talking about. Jimmy flinched away, understandably unsettled. Robert kept thinking. 

“If Jimmy Page got his greatest wish and learned magic, he’d start obnoxiously calling himself a. . . Jimmy Mage.” 

“Rightly calling himself, you mean.” 

“Sure. If Jimmy Page knew how to drive, which he doesn’t, he would occasionally check the. . . Jimmy Gage. If Jimmy Page worked a regular job, he would depend on a. . . Jimmy Wage.”

“Hey, Robert, quick question, did you prepare these beforehand?” 

“No, Bonzo. See, you know how I occasionally just let my eyes glaze over and I stare into the middle distance with my eyes fixed on an insignificant point?” 

“Yeah that’s weird you should stop doing that.” 

“Well, when I do, often I play this little game with myself.” 

“That’s,” he started his sentence, realized that there was no way to put what he felt into words, and simply ceased. 

“Who has other ones for Jonesy?” 

“If something belongs to John Paul Jones, then it’s something he. . . John Paul Owns.” 

“That was a good try, Keith!” Robert had a hard time encouraging people without being condescending about it. 

“When John Paul Jones has a skill, he. . . John Paul Hones it.” 

“Accurate.” 

“If John Paul Jones hadn’t any money, he might seek out some. . . John Paul Loans.”

“Within his soft, freckled flesh, John Paul Jones contains. . . John Paul Bones.” 

“See, Jimmy, when people suspect you of being a serial killer, this is why.” 

“When John Paul Jones drives along the street, he may run into or over some. . . John Paul Cones.” 

“When John Paul Jones goes out on the town, he attracts the romantic attention of many. . . John Paul Crones.” 

“If John Paul Jones was an important businessman, comparable to the greatest man in my life, Mister Peter Grant, his office would probably contain many. . . John Paul Phones.” 

“If he was in a different band, John Paul Jones would be a member of the. . . John Paul Stones.” 

“If Keith Moon lived near the equator, every summer he would have to look out for a. . . Keith Monsoon.”

“That’s actually really creative, Keith.” 

“Thank you Robert.” 

“But you can’t do yourself. That’s tacky.” 

“Who else is there?” 

“Jeff Beck’s last name is only one syllable.” Jonesy chose violence. Robert responded in kind. 

“If Jeff Beck comes anywhere near me,” Jimmy knew he couldn’t protest, so he simply tightened his grip around his little cocktail and stared resolutely at Roger’s shoe. “I will. . . Jeff Deck him, right in his stupid fucking oily inbred face.” 

“So,” John casually leant in towards the other bassist, much closer than was strictly necessary. “Is there some context for this that I should know, or?” 

“You’re a clever boy, thunderfingers, you can figure it out.” 

“If Jeff Beck ever calls Jimmy’s hotel room again, I will find him and I will break his Jeff Neck.” Percy was now so furious that he forgot the comedic pause. 

“If John Paul Jones was on a science fiction show, there would probably be an episode when he has many. . . John Paul Clones,” Jimmy tried to change the subject. “That was pretty funny, wasn’t it guys?” 

“On the wonderful day when Jeff Beck dies,” Robert was apparently unassuaged, “he’s going straight to Jeff Hell!” 

“That one didn’t even rhyme.”

“More like, more like Jeff Wreck! Jeff Home Wrecker.” Jimmy, who had no other ideas, simply looked to Roger- apparently his only friend- and with his pouty little lips went through the motions of asking for help. Roger looked around, found no distractions, and ran off. Jimmy hoped he was looking for some solution, instead of just running away from the responsibility, but he had no option but to wait. 

“Jeff Beck is the one Jeff Speck of dirt on the perfect pristine carpet that is my life.” 

“That’s not even remotely true-” Just in the nick of time, Roger bounded back to the group.

“Hey I know what we can do!” 

“What can we do, Roger?” He didn’t answer, instead thrusting a board game he’d apparently found into Jimmy’s outstretched hands. He gave it a glance, but didn’t really think about it. His goal was no longer to have a pleasant evening; the only thing that mattered was that Robert forgot that Jeff Beck existed.

“Yeah, that’s a great idea right guys.” It was not a question. Everyone else was quick to agree. As Roger hurriedly set the game up, throwing the top lid to the aid without a worry in the world, Keith actually looked at it. 

“Monopoly?” 

“Yeah, haven’t you ever played?” Keith only shook his head. There was some deeply dark energy to the small scrap of cardboard he clasped within the calloused weapons of art and destruction at the end of his wrists. It called to him. This has the potential to ruin lives, it said. You could wreak untold havoc, suffering and damage, upon the others. This wasn’t altogether unusual for him, but he’d never expect it coming from a board game. 

“Are you in or not?” Keith shook himself. 

“Of course I am!” He scrambled to join the circle of greasy elves, kneeling around the board. They’d put it on the floor because all of the tables were covered in unwanted store-bought foodstuffs. Pete and Roger were beginning to tread the inevitable end of the party, when most of that garbage would still be not only around, but their responsibility. While Jimmy tried to help Robert calm down from whatever the fuck had just happened, gently petting his hair and murmuring what sounded like French, Pete appointed himself the leader. 

“Have we all played before?” This prompted a chorus of affirmations, except for Keith. Roger also said, “kind of,” because he’d only played the homemade imitation he and his sisters had sloppily created in their youth, but he figured they couldn’t have been that off base. 

“Well, you’ll just have to figure it out then.” John nudged him. 

“Fine, we’ll just explain it as we go along.” 

“Oh, I want to be the cat.” Robert said this just as Jimmy went to grab it. 

“But I’m always the cat!”

“Yeah, it’s my turn.”

“But the only other thing is the shoe!”

“Too bad.” They were off to a wonderful start. 

Ten minutes in, John Entwistle had acquired the entire brown color set. Nobody noticed, because he was very quiet, and they were mostly focused on the open lust with which Roger was staring at the railroad, which nobody had landed on yet. 

Another ten minutes passed. The friendly tone began to fade as fewer properties were available. 

Pete decided to trade his money for the smallest bills that he could, to be a dickhead. This meant that nobody could obtain exact change, and Jimmy started taking notes on who owed whom. He became so focused that the others frequently skipped his turn without his noticing. This enabled Robert to slyly steal South Carolina from him, to complete the green color set. Nobody said anything. He knew he should have felt bad, betraying his baby like that, and he added $50 to Jimmy’s money. Still, Robert was ultimately willing to do anything to win. 

Keith didn’t understand the game at all, and despite the others’ promises to explain it to him, that routinely failed to manifest. By the time he really understood what was going on, he only had a handful of properties and so little money that he had to start selling them. He was out of the game before all of the properties had even been bought up. 

Bonzo ended up spending all his money obtaining Park Place and Boardwalk, and banked seemingly his entire strategy on those properties, building houses as soon as they were his. Through a cruel twist of fate, he was the only person to land on either of those properties for the rest of the game. 

Robert started tapping the board nervously. Jonesy raised an eyebrow. “Robert, you know, I’m the only person here who knows Morse code, and, let me tell you, I find your proposition disgusting and unethical.”

“Damn it, I can’t go to jail!” Bonzo exclaimed. “Not again!”

“I can go for you,” Jonesy offered. Pete balked. 

“That’s against the rules!”

“Where does it say that?” The guitarist furiously flipped through the rulebook and, evidently finding no such provision, cast it aside angrily. 

“It’s the spirit of the thing!”

“People frame each other all the time. I’m just choosing to let him.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, sweet thing. I’m deciding to.” 

“Aww. Isn’t there something you want?”

“No, that’s okay.” Jonesy was already moving his piece, the steamboat in case you care, into the prison square. 

“Well now I feel bad.” 

“You can give me like ten dollars or something, if you really want to.” Instead, he got fifty. “You’re so sweet!” 

“Haha, snake eyes!” Robert exclaimed, momentarily unaware that he’d landed on one of his bassists properties. 

A few turns later, it finally dawned on Bonzo what had happened. 

“Wait a moment.” 

“What is it?” 

“You haven’t been paying rent!” 

“Well, yeah sweetie, I’m in jail.” 

“You’re just making more and more money without ever spending any!” Jonesy decided to play coy, the little whore. 

“I guess that’s one way to look at it, yeah. Way to be optimistic!” 

“No, no no! You knew! You knew what you were doing!”

“I went to prison for you. Jail is bad. I was only trying to be nice.” 

“That’s bullshit, you manipulated me!” 

“Baby, let’s not lose our head-”

“So whose turn is it?” Roger asked, staring resolutely at his own hands. 

“John, you can go to jail, if that’s what you really want.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” They switched positions, neither looking at the other. 

“Roger, you have to quit.” At least four hours had passed. By this point, John was a successful slumlord, having put multiple hotels on the entire super-cheap first quarter of the board; Jonesy was churning out a steady profit from his loose configuration of properties, with all the bonus money he’d made in prison; Robert and Pete were holding on while Bonzo waited for somebody to land on boardwalk; and Jimmy and Keith had been bankrupted, and were sulking alone. And then there was Roger. Roger had the utilities and Saint. James. Roger was supposed to be bankrupt, and was stubbornly refusing to give up. Multiple times, he had under $50, and managed to luck out, skimming by on his measly holdings and passing go. 

“I’ll never quit.” 

“You absolutely must. You can’t go on like this.” 

“It seems like I have been for a while.” 

“Let’s team up on him, gang.” 

“Yeah!” 

“That’s against the rules.” 

“Shut up Jonesy.” 

“How about you shut up, John?!”

The game continued. 

Time continued to pass. The bank ran out of money. 

“Well, what do we do now?” 

“What do the rules say?” 

“The rules say that the bank never runs out of money.” 

“Let’s just write down who owes whom what.” 

“Fine.” 

“Somebody has to land on Boardwalk,” Bonzo said, to nobody in particular. 

“Baby, I told you you shouldn’t have built a hotel until people have landed on it.” 

“Can you just shut up?” 

“I beg your pardon?!” 

“You heard me.” Jonesy moved to sit next to the other bassist. 

A few turns later, Pete went bankrupt. He declared himself the banker, in charge of tracking all the financial transactions. However, nobody trusted him, because he seemed to be fudging the numbers- although how, no one could manage to agree. This led to a heated debate, which ended in physical violence. Robert managed to pry his fellow singer off of Townshend, but it was too late. Pete stormed out of the house, leaving a cold silence in his wake. 

Another hour passed. Nobody landed on Boardwalk, and Bonzo decided to quit before he ran out of money. While Jonesy expected to be given what little his drummer had left, John instead left it to the bank and silently stormed over to one of the snack tables. Jimmy and Keith were also at separate tables, and Roger thought with a smirk that Pete had been clever in his bizarre six-table plan. 

The sun rose. Jonesy started to smoke. 

Jimmy passed out on the specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair, while Bonzo retired to the attic and Keith watched the game with the cold eyes of a man defeated. 

Robert was forcibly removed for flagrantly trying to ally himself with various other players, usually whichever one had the best prospects at the moment. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with collaborating, while Roger and the bassists especially fervently disagreed with him. Again, they started to argue, although this time it stayed verbal, rather than outwardly violent. It was ugly, though, and Robert was very upset. He almost went to join Jimmy on the specially designated for-Pete’s-use-only moping chair, but thought better of it, and slept on the kitchen floor. 

Half an hour later, Jonesy quit the game, having run out of patience. Nobody would talk to him, and he wasn’t fully sure that he wanted to talk to them either, so he instead went to the kitchen, trying to find something to eat. Instead, he accidentally stepped on Robert’s hand. 

By the time Jimmy was awake, the game was still going strong. The losers shared a pot of coffee, although nobody seemed to want to engage with anybody else. When Bonzo eventually came down from the attic, the decision was made to end the game on a draw. John maintained that he’d won, since he had most of the properties and almost all of the money when the game was over, but Roger maintained that he’d actually won, because he was “better.” That was all he was willing to elaborate. 

For another hour, they all sat about, idly eating and brewing over the wrongs of the past. No one was able to gather the courage to speak or interact with anyone else. It was just different now. They’d all backstabbed, manipulated, and hurt one another; they’d all revealed that there were other, worse sides to their personalities. There was no potential of anything going back to normal. Eventually Jonesy posited that it was time to leave, and Keith and John decided to hitch a ride with them. 

  
  


Both bands broke up, and none of the eight of them ever spoke to one another again. 

The real reason being too personal, they all instead told the press and others that they had been in an eight-way polycule that started to err dangerously close to cult territory- Jimmy’s fault, obviously- and that they’d broken up for their own safety and couldn’t see each other again. 

In the ensuing years, John Paul Jones joined a few supergroups and, through several bad decisions and one catastrophic twist of fate, became one of Britain’s foremost celebrities, entirely against his own will. He now lives in Singapore under a pseudonym, but that’s not likely to last long. 

Pete Townshend was tragically, some would say ironically, blinded in a horrific gardening accident, the exact circumstances of which are still under investigation by the British government. Pete learned and quickly mastered the strange art of human echolocation, but delighted anyways in carrying a cane around so that nobody could get mad at him for hitting them. 

Jimmy Page tried to join other bands and do solo work, but sadly, nothing stuck, and he ultimately lived out the rest of his life in Jeff Beck’s basement, where he remains to this day. Beck maintains that he’s completely welcome and even encouraged to move upstairs, but that has yet to occur. 

Keith Moon made a new name for himself opening up the world’s first wildlife refuge for raccoons, one of the least endangered species on the planet. When asked to comment, Moon justified this as “funny.”

The very afternoon of their separation, after freezing his finances and sending a pre-written love letter (on perfumed paper and complete with several illicit photos of himself) to his former employer, Robert Plant disappeared into the local forests for three years, becoming something of an urban legend. When he emerged, he spent only a week readjusting to societal life before going into marriage counseling, because “I figure the people with the most problems give the best advice, right? Yeah, that’s a saying, innit?” That proved a lucrative and fulfilling career for Percy, and we should all be happy for him.

John Entwistle has not been seen since he departed from the unofficial Led Zeppelin travel van. If you have any information pertaining to his whereabouts or the tragic murder of Elton John, please contact the proper authorities. 

Roger Daltrey and John Bonham have been happily married for several decades now. Asking why or how is a fool’s errand, an exercise in futility, and you honestly shouldn’t bother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to say Merry War on Christmas but.   
> Also yeah I’m doing a holiday special before the source material is even done. Just pretend that this makes me a visionary or something. The finale to the original thing should be done at least by April, knock on wood. 
> 
> Sincerely I hope you’re having a wonderful holiday, thank you for spending time reading this.


End file.
